Redbeard
by Kiki102
Summary: Part of the Sherlock's Infant Instructions universe. "Oliver! I've got a surprise for you," Sherlock called. Alarm bells were set off immediately in John's head. Images of dismembered body parts flashed through his head.


"Oh, before you go dear, I've been meaning to give you this for ages," Mrs Holmes said, disappearing into the cupboard under the stairs. Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Here we are," she said, re-emerging with an old cardboard boot box, ties with brown twine, in her arms. "I found it when we were clearing out your old room but I keep forgetting about every time we see you. Probably because it's so long between visits!"

"What is it?" he frowned.

"Old photos and things mostly I think. I didn't have a proper look."

"I don't want it."

"Well I don't want it either. Just throw it away," his mother said, pushing it into his arms.

"Why can't you… Fine."

"Goodbye Sherlock. And I do wish you wouldn't leave it so long between visits, especially now I've got a grandson. After all, we do have seven years to make up for," his mother said, reaching up to kiss his cheek.

XOXOXOX

That night, back in Baker Street, Sherlock returned to the box. John had been upstairs twice to tell him to 'stop playing the bloody violin, don't you know it's two in morning you idiot'. Then Mary had come up and told him that he 'better stop playing the violin cause it's two in the morning and otherwise I'm going to kill you, you bloody idiot so help me God'.

Slicing through the twine with a knife, he dropped it on the floor for Mrs Hudson to pick up later. Sure enough, the box was filled with photos and bits of paper from his childhood. Sitting on top in pride of place was a school photo of him and Mycroft. Sherlock, aged six, skinny and scowling, with black curls going in all directions. And Mycroft, aged twelve, already with the bored, imperious look on his slightly chubby face. Part of Sherlock was tempted to send a copy of the photo to his brother with the message 'for motivational purposes'.

He continued sifting through the layers of his childhood. Many of the pictures drew blanks, because the memories associated had been deleted to make room for other, more important details. He also found bits of paper with ideas for experiments scribbled across them. One was a school report which said 'Sherlock is a very bright boy, however he lacks concentration. Perhaps if he turned his attention towards his studies instead of other activities, his grades would improve'. Sherlock smirked. That was the teacher he'd deduced was terrified of spiders, and in order to test his theory, had locked a large spider in her desk. She'd been unimpressed with his explanation.

Near the bottom of the box, one photo made his breath catch. Clearing his throat and trying to pretend he wasn't as bothered as he was (despite being in an empty room and the only person in the building still awake), he stared at the photo.

It was from a family holiday in France. The rest of the holiday had been deleted to make room for GSR patterns, however this day refused to be deleted. Ten year old Sherlock stood, in shorts and a shirt, grinning widely at the camera, his arm flung around a somewhat soggy and sandy red setter.

Redbeard.

They'd gone to the beach and Sherlock had loved it. He'd raced across the sand, leaping over the waves with Redbeard, and pretended to be a pirate, climbing upon the rocks. So, naturally, Mycroft had hated it. To keep the peace, their mother had returned to town with Mycroft, while Sherlock, Redbeard and his father had stayed at the beach. Back then his father had been an ally and a friend, who helped them dig for buried treasure.

Sherlock stared at the photo. He'd loved Redbeard. He'd struggled to get along with the other children at school, and fought constantly with Mycroft, so Redbeard had been his main source of companionship. He realised again how lucky Oliver was to have inherited George's ability to socialise.

XOXOXOX

After a long day at work dealing with people acting like children and actual screaming children, John was relaxing… by dealing with more screaming children. Although admittedly Amy, Jack and Oliver were screaming because they were having fun, as opposed most of the children of work. He'd drawn the short straw because Mrs Hudson was out with her boyfriend and Mary was on a hen night, leaving John in charge of the children.

And speaking of children, Sherlock was being very conspicuous by his absence… John knew he wasn't on a case for Lestrade, because he's just spent an hour on the phone to Greg hearing about how bored the DI was with no cases and bloody training seminars all day. And it was unlikely he was on a private case, because he hadn't bombarded John with texts all afternoon. Which left John very suspicious. He didn't like not knowing what Sherlock was up to. It had a habit of leading to very nasty surprises.

_Speak of the the devil_ he thought as he heard the front door slam and a pair of feet rumble up the stairs.

"Oliver! I've got a surprise for you," Sherlock called as he strode into the room, badly hiding something under his coat. Alarm bells were set off immediately in John's head. Images of dismembered body parts flashed through his head.

"Uh, Sherlock? Any chance you could tell me what this surprise is before…"

Too late. Before he could finish the children raced into the room. Sherlock swept back his coat and plonked down a wriggling, red bundle in front of Oliver.

"A dog!" the boy cried in delight.

John stared. It was indeed a dog. A gangly, red dog, halfway between puppy and adulthood who, after realising he was no longer being held captive under Sherlock's coat, raced around Oliver, barking excitedly.

"Uh, Sherlock? Can I have a word?" he said tentatively.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked once they were out of earshot of the children.

"Of course it is. Why?"

"Well, to pick one of the many reasons which present themselves, because Amy has been begging me and Mary for a dog for months and we've always told her no because we don't live somewhere suitable for a dog."

Sherlock followed John's gaze towards his honorary niece, taking in Amy's mutinous look.

"Oh. She'll get over it," he shrugged.

"And, did you even ask Mrs Hudson first?"

"Why would I do that?"

"Because it's her flat. Any one of us could be deadly allergic to dogs."

"Are you allergic to dogs?"

"Not but-"

"Is Mary?"

"No-"

"Amy or Jack?"

"Not as far as we know. But-"

"Then what's the problem?" Sherlock asked.

"Fine. I give in. Your dog, your problem," John replied.

"What's his name?" Oliver asked, looking up from fussing over the dog.

"Redbeard," Sherlock replied. Actually his name had been Fred until a few hours ago. But that was far too boring a name for the dog of the son of the world's only consulting detective. Hearing his recently acquired name, the dog's ears pricked up and he raced across to Sherlock. As John watched in surprise, Sherlock crouched to fuss over Redbeard. John had suspected Sherlock would never want anything to do with the animal and his care would fall to a combination of John, Mary and Mrs Hudson. However, Sherlock seemed to genuinely like the dog.

"Thank you so much!" Oliver said, launching himself at his dad, nearly causing Sherlock to loose his balance as he flung his arms around Sherlock's neck. After hesitating momentarily, Sherlock put his arms loosely around his son and gave his usual quick tap on the back. Then for the first time ever, he placed the briefest of kisses on Oliver's temple before quickly letting him go.

XOXOXOX

Today was the day. John took a deep breath, and told himself that there was nothing else for it. The queues at the checkouts were miles long.

So.

That was it then.

Today was the day he'd beat the self service checkouts.

Setting the basket down he picket up the first item and, mentally praying that for once it would work, scanned the item. He breathed a sigh of relief as the machine beeped and the item appeared on the screen. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this after all.

Once all the items were scanned and in their bag, John started to relax. It looked like today was his day after all. Anyway, Mary would kill him if he came home without the shopping again. She was fed up of having to rescue him from the machines. He put his card in, typed in the number and waited.

"Error."

"What?"

"Error."

"That's the right number."

"Error."

"Well what's wrong with it then?" he cried, aware that people were starting to stare.

"Error. Sorry John."

John groaned. Of course. Mycroft.

XOXOXOX

Mycroft was quickly coming to the conclusion that John Watson had spent too much time in his brother's company. He'd certainly managed to pick up Sherlock's glare. But then, perhaps that came from his years as an army captain instead. Whatever the case, it was startlingly similar to Sherlock's.

"You couldn't have let me get the shopping," John said, breaking the silence. "My wife will kill me. And when I say she'll kill me, it's not an exaggeration, she could, actually, kill me."

Mycroft was well aware of Mary Watson's past, however that was the least of his concerns at the moment.

"How is Sherlock?" he asked, ignoring John's glare.

"He's fine," John replied. "I however, will not be."

Mycroft sighed.

"I have sent my assistant to 221c with your groceries. So there will be no need for Mrs Watson to return to… old habits. Now, how is Sherlock?"

"I told you, he's fine," John replied through gritted teeth.

"And how is he coping with fatherhood?"

"For Sherlock, very well."

"Really? I find that hard to believe."

"He is. He's coping. Better than I thought he would. He bought Olly a dog," John added.

"A dog?"

"Yeah. Redbeard."

To the untrained eye, it would have been imperceptible, however John knew the Holmes family well enough to recognise a slight shift in Mycroft's demeanour.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," Mycroft lied. John stared at him. "Very well. When we were children Sherlock had a dog named Redbeard. He was heartbroken when it died. Do you still think he's coping with fatherhood?"

XOXOXOX

Sherlock was dissecting an eyeball when John returned to Baker Street, while Oliver and Redbeard were curled up together watching TV. John smiled, picturing a young Sherlock in a similar position. It wasn't difficult; Oliver had inherited his father's unruly black curls after all. He turned back to the elder Holmes.

"Hello," he said. Sherlock glanced up.

"Hello John."

"So, how's Redbeard settling in? Or, I should say, Redbeard two."

Sherlock paused, frowning.

"Mycroft?"

John nodded.

"Odd. Usually I smell his disgusting aftershave on you when you've been to see him."

"You make it sound like I want to visit him."

"Did you shower?" Sherlock asked, sniffing again. John grinned. "You're getting sneaky."

"Any chance to see if I can get one over the great Sherlock Holmes." They shared a smile. "So. Redbeard?"

"What about him?"

"Mycroft's worried."

"Mycroft's permanently worried," Sherlock replied, putting a slice of the eye under the microscope. "Personally I blame the constant dieting."

"Should I be worried?"

"No."

"Really? You just bought a dog exactly like the one you had as a child with exactly the same name."

"Actually I changed his name," Sherlock explained, focusing the microscope. "He was called Fred. That's a rubbish name for a dog."

"I thought sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side?" John said.

"It is."

John waited a moment, wondering if anything further was going to come, but Sherlock remained silent.

"So why is Mycroft so against Redbeard?" he asked.

"He was supposed to be Mycroft's dog. He was older, more responsible. But he took one look at him and growled." Sherlock smiled. "No wonder we got along. Mutual instant dislike of Mycroft."

John watched his friend as he focused all his attention on the sample. He smiled. Mycroft had nothing to worry about. Sherlock may not be the most conventional of fathers, however in his own way, John knew he cared about Oliver. He reached out a ruffled Sherlock's hair, earning a glare from the detective.

"Good boy."

"I'm not a dog John."

"Of course not."


End file.
